


Craving Loneliness

by Loudest_Voice



Series: Fragments in Space [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fantastic Racism, Gen, Politics, Racism, Rewrite, Sequel, Time Travel, Trigger Warnings at End-Notes, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3088166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry tries to raise a child he's afraid of while a madmen uses <em>Amortentia</em> to wreck hell on the Wizarding World.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amortentia

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha . . . I lied, I'm totally working on this right away. Fanfiction is supposed to be indulgent, right?

Dec. 31st, 1934

Love Potions didn’t exist.

If everyone dropped the euphemism and started calling them Rape Draughts, the Harry might not be spending New Years trying to catch whatever bastard was selling _Amortentia_ like it was Hiccoughing Solution. He should be in the backroom of Annie's shop, helping with the preparations of Tom's seventh birthday party, not stuck at Auror headquarters trying to wring answers out of an illegal potions pusher.

Praying for some patience, Harry laced his fingers together and put his elbows on the plain, wooden table of the interrogation room and tried unsuccessfully to meet Oswald Maher's shifty gaze. The short, balding man was known to his friends by the charming moniker of Ossie the Lizard, so could anyone really blame him for trying to slither his way of a problem?

"Ossie, look at me," Harry said finally, proud that his voice sounded neutral.

The nervous wizard finally focused his watery brown eyes on Harry. "I told you," he pleaded in the tone of a consummate salesman. "I brew my own product. It's the only way to guarantee client satisfaction!"

Harry leaned forward and rested his chin on top of his laced fingers, too tired to dredge an appropriate amount of disgust at that statement. "What do I look like to you?"

Ossie looked taken aback by the question. For a moment, Harry could almost see the gears of his opportunist mind trying to think the best possible answer.

"You look like an Auror," he tried after a few moments.

"Really?" Harry asked, pulling out the scroll with Ossie's information out of the table's drawer and waving it in Ossie’s face. "Because I was thinking I must look like a moron to you." He rolled open the scroll and pointed at the spot in the parchment that showed Ossie's Hogwarts marks. "You didn't even pass your potions O. W. L. and you expect me to believe you've been brewing _Amortentia_ well enough to sell and make a profit? Just tell me who you're working for!"

Ossie didn't even look at the table. "I practiced after I graduated!" he insisted.

Harry looked at him flatly. "You know what," he started, standing up and letting out an exaggerated sigh, "I don't have time for this." He picked up the scroll and walked out of the interrogation room, ignoring Ossie's pleads for him to be reasonable. Once outside, he gave the scroll to the Auror trainee in charge of escorting Ossie.

"See that Weasley gets those and escort that bug back to his cell."

The trainee nodded and sighed. Harry offered him a weak smile. He remembered what it was like being at bottom of the Auror hierarchy and having to handle the most tedious of tasks. Though he'd usually been spared guard duty on the major Holidays because everyone assumed he was a widower with a kid to care for.

He headed towards the Ministry service lifts hoping Septimus Weasley had better luck with Ossie.

Septimus’ interrogation skills were much better than Harry's. In fact, they'd both wordlessly settled on letting Harry question suspects first even though he rarely got anything out of them. After an hour or so beating their heads against the stone wall of Harry’s stubbornness, they tended to come clean to Septimus within fifteen minutes. Or so Septimus claimed.

Who would’ve guessed Harry Potter would one day play the bad Auror to a Weasley’s good Auror?

Once, he’d daydreamed about the day he’d caution Ron to be calm and patient during an investigation. Other Aurors hadn't really played into his fantasy, much less Aurors from the 1930s.

Then, when the Ministry turned against him during Voldemort's second rise to power, Harry assumed that he'd never be an Auror. At one point he'd been sure he wouldn't really be anything at all because one way or another, Voldemort would kill him.

Harry _had_ died, or something close to it. He hadn’t had much of an opinion on it since learning he’d taken Voldemort down with him. His friends back in the future had a shot to fix everything.

 _And I got what I always dreamed of, no?_ Harry mused as the Christmas decorations all over the Ministry glinted off his glasses one last time before the new year.

He was an Auror, though he suspected that had more to do with Scrimgeour's determination to keep Dumbledore under his sphere of influence than on any of his personal qualities. His partner was even a Weasley, though Septimus didn't have much in common with Ron besides the last name, lanky build, and red hair.

He was on the elevator to the Muggle world wondering if he'd become short-tempered and impatient because he was constantly dealing with Voldemort’s bitter frustration when the evil monster himself shot him a thought for the first time in five days.

_Don't blame me for your many shortcomings, Potter._

They'd been stuck together for so long Harry wasn't even startled. As a matter of fact, he wasn't really all that comfortable with Voldemort staying quiet for too long. The respite from the constant mockery would be a welcome change if Harry ever allowed himself to let his guard down. Which he obviously didn’t. No matter how much Dumbledore insisted it was impossible, Harry couldn’t stop being paranoid about being truly possessed.

Whenever Voldemort stayed quiet for more than a week, Harry used a meditation technique he'd learned from Rosalind Potter and went into his mind to figure out what his much despised tenant was up to. The visits usually earned Harry a headache thanks to whatever awful memory Voldemort decided to put him through, but they were worth it because they showed him if Voldemort was on the verge of figuring out how to evict Harry from his own body.

Put succinctly, Harry was always being verbally harassed by Voldemort or wondering if Voldemort had finally found a way to turn him into a vegetable. Either way, he lost.

 _The only thing more depressing than your life is being forced to_ watch _your life. If you were as good you pretend you are, you’d have some sympathy for me._

Though Voldemort lost with him, which was the only thing that kept Harry going on most days. He sighed and stepped into one of the gentlemen's underground toilet that connected the Ministry of Magic to Whitehall. He made sure that no Muggle had accidentally wandered down to the underground toilets and then Disapparated to the backroom of Annie's shop.

Annie was the first friend he’d made upon arriving in the past and probably the only reason he hadn’t starved to death while dragging an infant Tom Riddle with him. When Harry arrived at her house, she was putting the final touches on Tom's birthday cake with a basic Levitation Spell.

Multicolored sprinkles in the shape of a dragon again. Tom had been obsessed with them since Dumbledore got him that blasted encyclopedia.

"Good late morning," said Annie after sparing Harry a glance. Light from floating candles glinted off the golden threads woven into her yellow headscarf, one that matched a yellow set of dress robes Harry recognized as her favorites. Her thick, black curls were unbraided and a halo of locks made it out from under the scarf. "Was it something too bad?"

"A trainee picked up someone I've been looking for," answered Harry as he removed his cloak.

Annie disapproved of the way he dropped Tom all over the place to answer summons from other Aurors. Harry was putting his long, black cloak in a coat closet when Annie’s husband Owen walked in, effectively distracting her from bombarding Harry with another rant. Which Harry probably deserved, in all honesty.

Owen was carrying their youngest daughter on his arm, his wide shoulders making the little girl look smaller than she was. Even Annie barely reached Owen's shoulders so he had to bend down to kiss her forehead.

"Everything good?" Owen asked Harry.

"Well enough," answered Harry, waving to little Odette.

The little girl had just turned five a handful of weeks ago. Owen put her down and she raced over to Harry, waving a Chocolate Frog Card in her tiny hand. The little bells woven into her braids jingled, which made Voldemort seethe with annoyance.

"Look Uncle!" said Odette. "It's a new lady witch!"

Harry leaned down and made a show of examining the card in her small hand. It was Bridget Wenlock's entry. "Good find!" he told Odette, patting her head lightly.

"Our dresses match," continued Odette, pointing at Wenlock's purple robes. "I'll show Alice and Tom!" she said before scampering out of the room.

"How many kids are coming?" asked Owen.

"Just Michael's son," Annie answered. "I think we'll get more adults, actually. We can always sell the leftovers."

Harry would’ve invited some of Tom’s classmates for a birthday party but he preferred not to spend New Year's dealing with irate Obliviators. He still owed favors from the last time he’d unleashed Tom on his unsuspecting Muggle classroom in the middle of a sugar high. Tom tended to spontaneously cast magic when he was tired, sick, or excited.

Constantly, more or less. How Voldemort hadn't been discovered during his years at the orphanage was a miracle.

 _I was much smarter than the brat,_ interjected Voldemort. _Not that it'd be a problem if you didn't insist on surrounding yourself with disgusting Mudbloods._

Harry didn’t bother to acknowledge such comments anymore. He joined Annie and Owen and helped with the rest of the pastries, content to hear them plan out the rest of the month. Sometimes, he missed the days of listening to Annie budgeting for The Leaky Cauldron.

Once all the treats were done, Harry put his wand back in his trousers and went to the front of the bakery. Annie had decorated the place as best she could considering she did business east of central London and catered mostly to Muggles. Even without magic, she knew how to make a place look . . . Harry didn’t know the words.

_Aesthetically pleasing. Dominated by well-complementing colors. She instinctively understand colors and knows how to please the human eye. There are hundreds of ways to express it. Idiot._

The edges of the glass windows were dusted with blue and golden glitter, which should be tacky but made Harry think of stars in a bright night. At the right edge of the counter, there was a small tree with blue and gold oval ornaments and glass icicles hanging off of it. A miniature nativity scene rested at its feet, most likely to please Annie's mother. The customer tables all had a glass vase glittered to match the front windows.

The shop would be closed all day since Annie liked hosting Tom's birthday party in the afternoon and a New Year's Eve celebration in the evening. Most guests hadn't shown up yet since the party didn't officially start until 1:00 PM.

Mrs. Wilkins was playing with Odette and Alice—Annie's older daughter. She was laughing as the girls did a little dance in front of her, lifting her orange robes when the girls danced close enough to step on the hems. She'd been babysitting Tom, Alice, and Odette since they'd been born.

Felana—Annie's mother—was playing a round of _Fanorona_ with Tom. It was a checkers-like game often played in Madagascar, the place the Moreau family had come from. Felana was fond so of Tom that she let him sit on the Malagasy lessons she often held for Alice and Odette.

She wasn't as fond of Harry. At least, she hadn't been since he'd tried to stop her from teaching Tom a new language. Harry hadn't meant to be offensive. He just wasn't thrilled with the idea of Tom being able to communicate in a language he didn't understand.

Of course, he'd been unable to explain why so Annie and Felana had both assumed he didn't want his white-as-porcelain kid speaking in a language used mostly by black people. That conversation had been very brief, unpleasant, and it'd ended with Harry withdrawing his objections to Felana's language lessons.

Annie seemed to have forgotten the whole thing, but Felana had yet to forgive Harry. Not that she'd been particularly warm towards him before that fiasco. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d swear the old bat could see right through him straight into the gaping hole where Voldemort’s soul ought to be. Once, she’d wished him luck in dealing with his demons in broken English.

Then she went right ahead and taught Tom French as well as Malagasy.

Steeling himself for the usual awkwardness, Harry waved to hello to Mrs. Wilkins and walked over to Tom and Felana. Tom noticed him when he was almost at their table and offered him a small nod.

"I'm back," he said when he was standing at Tom's left.

Tom nodded without looking up and Felana said something in Malagasy Harry didn't understand. He stood there for a few seconds and then Felana smiled and picked up the last of the black pieces on the board with a deeply wrinkled hand. She said something else in a happy tone and flicked Tom's nose. After furrowing her eyebrows in Harry's direction, she grabbed her cane, struggled up from her chair (Harry knew better than to offer help), and slowly walked to the backroom in a stilted gait.

She probably disapproved of his disappearing during Tom's birthday even more than Annie did.

After Felana disappeared into the backroom, Harry sat on the chair she'd been using. "She beat you?" he asked Tom.

"Yes," answered Tom. "Granny Felana will be sad if I win all the time. Do you want to play?"

Harry agreed, guiltily relieved that he wouldn't have talk while they were playing. Tom started arranging the pieces quietly and Harry couldn't shake an urge to apologize for taking off though Tom seemed unbothered.

"Sorry I had to leave again," he said as Tom finished with the white pieces and started with the black ones.

"Did you get the Dark wizard?" asked Tom, still not looking at Harry.

"It wasn't a Dark wizard," answered Harry.

Tom finally looked up at him and tilted his head.

"It was someone selling potions he wasn't supposed to."

Tom's pursed his lips and his big, dark brown eyes narrowed. "What potions?"

". . . Illegal ones," Harry answered, making the first move since Tom had given him white.

He was in no mood to explain what “Love Potions” were to a six - seven year old.

Tom frowned a little but turned his attention to the game, which didn’t slow his inevitable defeat in the slightest. Twenty five moves later, Tom was the undisputed victor.

_You're too stupid to defeat a child in a simple strategy game._

"What potions?" asked Tom. He was looking up at Harry again, his eyebrows arched and bright brown eye wide. Harry reached over and brushed some locks of messy black away from his forehead.

"Potions that made people do things they didn't want to do," he answered.

Tom's eyes widened and he opened his mouth.

"Enjoying your birthday so far?" Harry asked before Tom could ask another question about the potions.

Tom frowned, then bit his lower lip for good measure. "Aunt Annie made my favorite biscuits and everyone will bring books again," he answered, beginning to rearrange the board. He motioned to the white pieces when he was done and Harry made the first move.

They played a few more games in silence. Harry tried to pay more attention, but he ended up losing every round anyway. Tom was certainly never kind enough to let him win sometimes.

 _You're a moron; let me play,_ said Voldemort.

Harry ignored him and let Tom set up yet another round of Fanorona which he would inevitably lose. He would never allow any interaction between the Tom Riddles.

Voldemort's feelings for his younger self fluctuated between indifference, anger at the boy's easy friendship with "Mudbloods", and bitter jealousy. Not only was Tom's soul safely housed in his own body, he was also having an infinitely better childhood than Voldemort had “suffered” through. Tom was showered with praise and positive attention by everyone around him, something Voldemort had not experienced before Hogwarts.

Most importantly, he was being raised by a magical parent who didn't declare him insane when he talked about magic. Never mind that Voldemort hated Harry, he was still better than the orphanage matrons.

 _Don't pretend I would’ve preferred to be a around_ you, Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue.

Harry was losing a sixth round of Fanorona when he heard feminine voices coming from the counter. He looked up and spotted Rosalind Potter, the only one of his ancestors he'd built a relationship with since finding himself in the past. She was a gifted Legilimens who'd helped improve Harry's rather atrocious Occlumency skills over the last seven years. In the process, she’d learned all of Harry’s secrets, including the one living in his head.

Harry waved to her and beamed when she looked towards him and Tom.

Rosalind kissed Annie on the cheek and headed to their table. A beautiful witch in scarlet robes walked beside her, thick waves of brown hair falling down her back. She provided a stark contrast to Rosalind's more staid, light green robes and graying black hair tied back into a bun that reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall.

"Happy New Year, dear," Rosalind said when she reached their table, then bent down to kiss Harry's cheek.

"Happy New Year," Harry responded with a smile.

"And Tommy!" added Rosalind. "Soon, you'll be grown man!" She wrapped the boy in a tight hug, then pulled back kissed the top of his head. 

How she could be so warm with Tom knowing what he’d grown into in Harry’s timeline was a mystery. Annie adored him too but she had only had a quiet, well behaved boy to deal with. She’d never even heard Voldemort’s name, much less suffered through a mental attack from the bastard.

Tom graced Rosalind with a smile so bright it pulled Harry out of his morose memories.

Rosalind was a magical historian and a dedicated tutor. There was nothing she loved more than finding an intelligent student who appreciated literature as much as she did. She and Tom got along very well.

"Happy New Year, Aunt Rosalind," Tom said before looking at the brown-haired witch. "And you too miss."

"Oh, yes!" said Rosalind, pulling the younger woman closer to her side. "May I present my niece, Cedrella Black."

The witch bowed her head in Harry's direction and smiled at Tom.

"Harry, you might remember her,” continued Rosalind. “She was with me the very first time you came to see me."

"Nice to meet you," said Harry.

"I need to have a word with you," said Rosalind. "Tom, why don't you teach Cedrella how to play Fanorona?"

Tom nodded and Harry gave Cedrella his chair. With one last smile to the both of them, he followed Rosalind to the opposite end of the shop.

"We have a problem," she said when they were seated at another table. "Charles knows your real last name."

Harry sighed. "How did he find out?” he asked, pressing his glasses into the bone between his eyes.

"His child was born three days ago," said Rosalind. "It was a boy. He was going to name him Harry and asked Hattie if there were any other Potters with that name."

"And she couldn't lie to him," Harry finished. Hattie was the Potter family's House-elf. She'd found out that Harry was a Potter when he'd been forced to give her an order seven years ago. He'd forgotten to order her to keep his existence to herself (not that it’d have mattered since she couldn’t outright lie to other Potters anyway) so she'd told Rosalind the truth about his last name. It was the only reason Rosalind knew who Harry really was.

"Charles is quite upset," said Rosalind. "He believes that you're a bastard and that Father has been unfaithful to mother. I've managed to convince to speak to you before confronting Father."

"And what am I supposed to say?"

"The truth?" Rosalind suggested, raising her eyebrows.

"The less people know the truth about me, the better," Harry protested.

"If Charles confronts our father, you will have to explain yourself to both them," Rosalind pointed out.

Harry was about to ask about distant relatives, but he heard more voices coming from the backroom door. Septimus Weasley made his way out of the kitchen, followed closely by their Division Leader at Auror Headquarters - the ever energetic and handsome Albert Diggory.

Harry looked back at Rosalind. "Send your brother my way. Now, if you excuse me, I need to talk to Weasley and Diggory." He ignored the exasperated glare that’d taken over Rosalind’s round face and walked towards his partner and their boss.

". . . A deck of Exploding Snap cards, really?" Septimus was asking in an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone when Harry reached the counter.

"He's turning seven," Diggory retorted. "What was I supposed to get him, the latest edition of Busty Witches Monthly?" His handsome features were twisted into an irritated scowl.

It was quite a common look for him but it still seemed strange to Harry even after knowing him for so many years. He'd never seen Cedric looking so much as put upon and Albert Diggory resembled his future grandson enough to make Harry feel out of place at the oddest of moments.

"Hey," he greeted. "Did you get to talk to the Lizard?" he asked Septimus.

"No," answered Septimus with another unusual scowl. "Let the piece of filth stew for a while."

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, unused to seeing Septimus in such an obviously foul mood.

"The Holidays have been unkind to our gentle Mr. Weasley," Diggory answered for him. "Come on you two, we need to debrief." He walked out from behind the counter and headed towards a table in the most secluded corner of the bakery. Knowing how paranoid he was, he’d cast a Concealment Charm over the immediate area.

They had to discuss what little progress they'd made on the _Amortentia_ case. They'd been working on it for months, carefully tracking a dramatic increase in the number of people who complained about being fed Love Potions. Scrimgeour hadn't really paid much attention at first since Love Potions weren't lethal. That had changed when Obliviators started sorting through reports of Muggle police officers trying to find some kind of "drug" that convinced people they were in love with strangers.

"What did you get out of him?" Diggory asked Harry once all three of them were seated.

"That he's afraid to rat out his supplier," answered Harry. "Ossie doesn't have friends. He would've tried to make a deal with me if he wasn't scared of whoever's giving him the Amortentia."

"And we're sure he's not brewing it himself?" asked Diggory.

"He's dumb," Harry reminded him.

"Even if he is, someone's giving him the ingredients," added Septimus. "We checked with the goblins. He's deposited too much gold in a short amount of time for someone financing large scale brewing of _Amortentia_."

"Then whoever's really behind this will have more than one pusher," Diggory said, leaning back on his chair. "I'll spread the word around. We should know next time an Auror picks someone up for selling Love Potions. Do we have any idea who the pusher might be?"

"They'll be rich," Septimus started. "And arrogant enough not to care about covering their tracks."

"Or too stupid to understand one of his pushers will eventually make a deal with us," Harry continued. "Maybe both."

"I'm thinking someone worried there aren't enough baby wizards being born," said Diggory, frowned at no one in particular. "Except, we'd need to rule out most old, Pureblood families since they'd never promote an increase in Half-Bloods."

Voldemort's impatient annoyance made Harry hold his breath for a second. "Not necessarily," he said, trying to sort out why Voldemort disagreed with Diggory.

"If they're just handing out Amortentia to random pushers, they can't control who they sell it to," Septimus interjected before Harry was forced to outright ask Voldemort to explain his feelings.

Diggory sighed and nodded. "We need to let Ossie out so we can follow—" he stopped abruptly and looked towards the table where Tom and Cedrella were still playing Fanorona. Harry looked over too.

Cedrella had just let out a delighted laugh. She was beaming at Tom, who shrugged and started setting up another round of Fanorona. Had she managed to beat Tom?

He’s seven, Voldemort snapped. Only idiots and senile old Mudbloods would have trouble outsmarting him.

"Since when—" Septimus started to ask but . . .

"Who's the woman playing with your kid?" interrupted Diggory.

Septimus spoke before Harry could answer. "Cedrella Black," he said, turning his back on her and Tom.

"Riddle, tell you're not in a relationship with her," Diggory ordered, still looking in Cedrella's direction.

"She's not even out of Hogwarts," Septimus answered before Harry could say anything.

"How do you know?" Diggory asked, turning his attention towards Septimus.

"Because I've met her," Septimus answered.

Abruptly, Harry remembered that Cedrella Black and Septimus Weasley were Ron's paternal grandparents.

"When?" asked Diggory.

"I'm sorry," Septimus snapped. "I wasn't aware I needed to give you detailed reports about my life."

"What's wrong with you today?" asked Harry while Diggory stared like he was trying to figure out if Septimus was possesed by a nasty Familiar or something along those lines.

Septimus glared at him and opened his mouth just to deflate before getting any words out.

"You've been acting strange," Diggory added, looking concerned for once. At least it looked like the conversation wasn’t going to devolve into the usual bickering that went on between them.

"I'm sorry," Septimus sighed. He put his elbow on the table and pushed his forehead against his hand. "I just hate the Holiday season. If I have to stop another argument between estranged family members, I'll go Dark myself."

"Let's just stop talking about work for now," said Harry. "We'll plan what to do about Ossie later. It's supposedly our day off." After nodding at Diggory, who pulled out a new deck of Exploding Snap cards and passed it to him, Harry stood up and made his way back to Tom's table.

Diggory would handle Spetimus’ bad mood. They were really good friends after all. Besides, Harry should at least make an attempt to spend some time with his supposed son on the boy's birthday.

Once he got to back to Tom’s table, Cedrella excused herself and went walked off to join Rosalind and Annie. Harry sat down on her chair and gave Tom the Exploding Snap deck.

"From Albert Diggory," he said.

"I don't have a wand," said Tom after reading the instructions in the back of the box.

"I know," said Harry, pulling out his own wand. He got the deck out and arranged twenty cards face down on the table. "Tell me which cards to tap."

They spent a good couple of hours playing with the deck of cards. Tom fell in love with the game, probably because it was the only one in quite a while that was actually challenging him. No matter how intelligent he was, he still had the reflexes of a seven year old child. Having to coordinate with Harry made it all even more difficult. He lost many more games than he won, which only made him stare down at the table more furiously, like he could reason out a pattern out of purposefully random sparks. Only Diggory would be clueless enough to get a game with literal explosions for a small child but it was letting Harry spend time with Tom without having to force stilted conversation. Merlin bless him.

Eventually, Alice and Odette came for Tom after Annie's brother brought his son to the party. The children went off to play and the adults sat around making small talk. Harry noticed that Septimus was carefully avoiding Cedrella, who sometimes forgot herself and stared at him. Diggory probably noticed as well and Harry idly wished he’d help Septimus through any love life turmoils.

Should Harry care more? Wasn’t he trying to give Ron and the others a chance? Which they wouldn’t take advantage of if they were never born. Harry didn't know the details, but he remembered Cedrella's name being blasted from the Black family tree.

It’d worked out once without his interference. Better to stay out of that.


	2. Mud in the Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when things go in a different direction . . .
> 
> Warnings at end notes.

Tom glared at the soggy sausages on his breakfast plate, imagining what he could be eating if he was at Aunt Annie’s. Fresh eggs. Crisp toast with garlic sauce. Warm chocolate milk. Hell, even Harry managed better meals than what was shamelessly given out at St. Michel’s School for Boys on most days.

School was getting so painfully boring. Not that it’d ever been particularly thrilling in the first place, but Tom would bet his favorite book that his classmates hadn’t been so dumb the previous year.

“There’re new boys coming in,” Anthony Miller was babbling at him in between sniffling breaths.

Poor Anthony. Always growing slower than everyone else in the class and fighting off an ever present runny nose that made his blue eyes watery, red, and tremulous. He didn’t exactly impress Tom as far as brains went, but he always did as Tom said with minimal complaints so Tom indulged his attempts at tedious friendship.

“Tom?”

“I’m busy,” snapped Tom, reaching into his jacket. He hadn’t finished with his birthday books yet and since he could hardly bring the dragon encyclopedia Professor Dumbledore had owled him to school, he might as well use the time to finish the physics book Owen had gotten him.

Anthony sucked in a noisy breath and inched closer to Tom on the bench, close enough he could peek at the text. Everyone else in their class was babbling about all the inane white noise people tended to babble about (homework mostly, and sports) but no one besides Tom tolerated Anthony. The whole of St. Michel’s School for Boys had christened Anthony their punching bag for reasons Tom had yet to work out. Anthony could be irritating, sure; but no more than the average boy at St. Michel’s and significantly less than many Tom could name. Maybe it was the way Anthony scurried about the school, shoulders hunched like he was trying his best to melt into the grey walls even though they were a different shade than their blazers.

“Tom!” interrupted Anthony after a few minutes.

Tom would’ve told him to shut up but it was impressive he’d controlled himself for as long as he had. Anthony had trouble with long division so it wasn’t likely he’d been entertained by a passage about which metals were good conductors and why.

“They’re members of the _peerage!_ ” continued Anthony. “But they don’t got money no more so now they have to come to a regular school like us.”

Was peerage even the right way to say it?

“And Momma says I have to be on my best behavior ‘cause it wouldn’t be right if they think I’m low class and uneducated.”

“We _are_ low class,” said Tom. “At least compared to them.” He might have gone as far as saying Anthony was also uneducated but that wasn’t entirely right either. Anthony came to school every day same as Tom; he just couldn’t seem to learn things for more than a week. Besides, there was no point in making him feel bad unless Tom wanted him to be quiet for a bit.

“B-but . . . but we still need to be dignified,” said Anthony, lower lip trembling.

_I’m not concerned with your opinions on dignity._

Harry said that once to another Auror who’d come to their house to argue. About what, Tom couldn’t say since he’d been sent to his room the moment he’d been noticed, but the words had remained with him.

Rumors about the incoming peers followed Tom around all day. Kids whispered about it in the bathrooms, while on line to get snacks, and whenever they got a few moments alone in class. Would they need to buy nicer shoes for school? Would they have to bow to their new classmates? Would the new boys even have to follow rules just like the rest of them? Even while waiting for Mrs. Myrza, the stout cook Harry paid to escort Tom back home every day, Tom heard some upperclassmen talking about getting invited to nobles’ homes and convincing some rich girl or other to marry them.

Tom really ought to have noticed sooner but he just couldn’t muster much interest about anything that went on at St. Michel’s. People were boring, Muggles more so than usual, though with a few exceptions of course. Uncle Owen, for example, was . . . he was someone who knew things in ways that weren’t described in books. Or words at all. But he was the only one who always knew when Tom was upset no matter how much Tom tried to hide it. Even Aunt Annie was usually reassured with a smile or two.

He didn’t get much to time to dwell on the new students, little as there was to dwell on. That evening, he found Harry curled up on his favorite couch, head buried in his elbow and the curtains in their living room shut and darkened with a charm.

Migraines again.

Tom must have been scared the first time he found his father, who usually stood tall and seemingly unaffected by everyone and everything, curled in on himself and whimpering at the slightest noise or flash of light. But he didn’t remember the first time it’d happened, though he’d figured out he shouldn’t talk about “Dad’s headaches” after offhandedly mentioning them to Aunt Annie that one time.

Harry had _not_ been happy.

“I’m home,” he announced, then waited a few moments for Harry’s acknowledging grunt.

He got it, so he rushed to his room without another word. The dragon encyclopedia was waiting for him, opened to the first page of the Peruvian Vipertooth’s entry. So far, the it was Tom’s favorite.

Most dragons were all about strength, fire, and size but the Peruvian Vipertooth was no bigger than a tiger. Its body was covered in tough copper scales that glistened under the sun and its skeleton was so tough and heavy it couldn’t fly very high or very far.

They probably weren’t upset about it.

The Vipertooths traveled in packs, unconcerned with running into Muggles, Wizards, or even larger dragons. They spat deeply acidic saliva that ate through the thickest of metals, never mind flesh and bone. When the saliva evaporated, any idiot unfortunate enough to inhale the gas spent hours, days, maybe _weeks_ , suffering through terrifying hallucinations. The Peruvian Ministry of Magic had an entire department dedicated just to controlling hordes of Vipertooths, staffed by their bravest and most powerful wizards.

Tom stared at the pair on the encyclopedia, entranced by how determined their attempts to attack him were. The smaller one was practically having a staring contest with him, its shining maroon eyes glinting like burning copper. Whenever Tom got a little distracted, it spat acid at him. Tom kept the game going until his stomach rumbled, reminding him that most people had a meal at some point before going to bed. He closed the encyclopedia and glanced at the door to his room.

Most of the time, Harry either called him down for a sandwich or took him to Annie’s on his way to stake out or some other Auror business. Tom rarely went hungry, but when he did it was thanks to Harry’s headaches.

Well, a little discomfort was hardly the end of the world, so Tom hurried to the the bathroom to bathe before starting his homework. The simple Math problems he had to do weren’t so difficult that an empty stomach would hinder him. Besides, Harry would be guilty tomorrow once Tom commented about going to bed without dinner. If Tom played his cards right, he might not even have to go to school.

No such luck. Harry merely shot him a narrowed glanced when he complained about not having dinner at the breakfast table next morning.

“I left you bread and cheese in the pantry,” said Harry, rubbing at the dark circles under his glasses.

Tom grunted and drank his soup quicker than he would have otherwise. Bread and cheese. What was he? A pitiful, forgotten orphan? Besides, he was supposed to steer clear of Harry during the migraines. Something about noise and movement making them worse.

St. Michel’s was brimming with excitement that day, because why _wouldn’t_ it be when Tom would have appreciated a little bit of its usual mundanity? Anthony was fidgeting on the desk next to Tom, almost vibrating actually. For once, he was too excited to heed Tom’s hissed demand to be left alone.

“The aristocrats are starting today!” he told Tom, sucking in a wheezy breath through his perpetually stuffy nose. “Maybe one of them will be in our class.”

“I really don’t care,” said Tom, glaring until Anthony shrank away a little bit.

If only Harry had listened to Aunt Annie and not sent him to school. What was the point, anyway? Aunt Annie knew as much as Mrs. Baldwin about anything and in any case, what Tom really needed to worry about was Hogwarts.

The nobles arrived just after morning homework review and as luck would have it, the youngest among them did end up in Tom’s class. Mrs. Baldwin spent way too much time introducing the lanky blond boy - why would anyone need so many middle names, how _inconvenient_ \- and then she ordered Anthony to another row because Tom was the best student in the class, obviously best suited to be an all-important aristocratic new student’s errand boy.

Anthony had looked at Tom as though they’d never see each other again while Matthew Archibald Donald Rupert - and Tom had stopped listening at that point - sat on his desk and offered Tom an inexplicably conspiratorial smile. Tom probably should’ve smiled back but he was still seething about being forced to attend school in the first place.

By the end of afternoon recess, Tom was scanning around for Anthony’s stupid sniffles like Odette hunted leftover pastries. Matthew Archibald etc. was dull. And a braggart. And so _dull_.

“ _You’re saying that wrong,_ ” Tom said in French when the idiot started waxing about his family’s latest trip to the _Arc de Triomphe_. “Really wrong. Do you even speak anything other than English?”

The idiot’s blue eyes widened and his nostrils flared, though he didn’t seem to know what to do beyond that. He might not understand the exact words Tom was saying, but he clearly heard the disdain in them anyway.

“There’s still some places I haven’t shown you,” Tom said in English, just to give his highness an opportunity to let the awkward moment pass.

Thankfully, Matthew Archibald etc. took the bait and agreed to follow Tom. St. Michel’s was hardly a big place, so the only place left to visit was the bathrooms - favorite ambush spot of many bullies, most of whom Tom was acquainted with thanks to his refusal to let anyone just trample all over Anthony. Much to Tom’s dismay, Dwight Lemmings was lounging by his usual spot a few meters from the bathroom’s entrance, scanning the hallways for his next unfortunate victim.

Tom indulged a very low sigh.

Dwight was his most hated classmate: a sandy-haired boy with big eyes two years his senior who didn’t seem capable of reading at an appropriate pace. What he lacked in brains, he more than made up for size and temper; he stood a head head taller than Tom (who a bit long for his age to begin with) and his chest was as wide a window. Sometimes, Tom mused that he should have gone through the trouble of befriending him, which would have effectively neutralized every other bully in the playground. Except Anthony and Dwight got along like oil and water in a frying pan and the two of them together would drive Tom into a tizzy.

“Well, what’s lord high and mighty need with a bathroom?” Dwight sneered when he spotted Matthew Archibald. “You’d have thought you don’t shit like the rest of us if you heard anyone talk about you.”

Any other day, it might’ve been comical to see a so-called noble sputter at a casual mention of shit but Tom’s belly was beginning to ache. He wanted to go home, not figure out what to do about Dwight sauntering towards them cracking his knuckles.

“How d-dare you - ” Matthew Archibald’s attempt at intimidation fizzed out even before Dwight was upon them. Him, really.

It didn’t seem like Dwight had even noticed Tom yet. He could easily walk away from the fiasco, worry about what to tell Mrs. Balwin later.

“Tom!” cried Matthew Archibald the second Dwight reached out for him.

He was getting a little nauseous. Something crawled up his throat- a little bit of burning liquid that made his mouth taste foul. Tom swallowed and shot a glare in Dwight’s general direction, which the bully unfortunately took as some kind of challenge even though it hadn't really been aimed at him. Dwight shoved Matthew Archibald aside like he was a skinny rag doll and wrapped a fist on the lapel of Tom’s grey sweater, pulling him up until he was standing on the tips of his toes. The walls at the edges of Tom’s vision seemed to spin.

“What’s with gross look, teacher’s pet?” growled Dwight.

And Tom threw up on him, the pale beans they had for lunch and who knew - maybe some of the soup he had for breakfast. Dwight reeled back with an outraged yell and Tom stumbled backwards, coughing weakly and grabbing his stomach. Ugh. Maybe Aunt Felana was right about what happened to children’s guts if they secretly got mad at their parents.

“You little son of _bitch!_ ” Dwight shouted, then his hand was wrapped around Tom’s neck.

Dwight’s hand tightened around his neck until Tom struggled to draw in a breath. His heart thundered in terror - he wanted to vomit again - then he just wished he could spit something as acidic as a Vipertooth’s saliva -

\- And Dwight screamed and leaped away from Tom, who vomited again the second his throat was free. The scent of cooking flesh mingled with the acrid taste in his mouth.

* * *

 

Harry was pouring over old Obliviator financial records in the cubicle he shared with Septimus, the sound of dozens of Aurors bustling about finishing reports and gossiping keeping him company, when the Com Coin (short for Communication Coin) in his pocket vibrated. It stopped within the minute, so whichever Auror was in charge of manning hails from whatever that had been (another department, St. Mungo’s, etc.) had gotten the message.

Harry (Voldemort) “developed” the damned things to enhance coordination among Aurors during the few months he’d functioned as a Muggle Affairs Consultant. The idea was Hermione’s, of course, who’d worked out how to use a Protean Charm to help Dumbledore’s Army congregate during their disastrous fifth year at Hogwarts. The Ministry used larger coins (bronze circles about the size of a grown man's palm) because they needed to send messages longer than a time and place for clandestine meetings between teenagers.

With Voldemort’s quite frankly terrifying grasp of Arithmancy, it hadn't been too hard to chain hundreds and hundreds of coins together - and then further divide those coins into subgroups depending on departments, which were then be reachable depending on the sequence of wand taps used by the sender on their own Com Coins. That little bit was Harry’s idea, actually. Wizards preferred incantations and fancy wand swirls, but even Voldemort couldn’t deny that Morse code was just more convenient for what basically amounted to magical telephone numbers.

Last Harry heard, enterprising new Hogwarts graduates were trying to reverse engineer the trick for commercial use. One gutsy Muggleborn girl wormed her way into Auror Headquarters once just to question Harry about “his” Arithmancy formulas personally. She’d been so certain distance would be the greatest obstacle to making Com Coins commercial but . . . It was one thing to connect everyone in a single building - or even one building to another (Aurors had a direct line to St. Mungo’s and vice versa) - but thousands and thousands of wizards? All the messages would get tangled with each other. And would ever single person need a different sequence of wand taps attached to their coins?

In any case, the Com Coins were extremely useful for the Ministry. In fact, they heralded Harry’s hilarious reputation as some kind of genius, Hermione forgive him for stealing the renown that would’ve been hers one day.

 _Where’s the guilt for taking credit for my Arithmancy formulas?_ Voldemort hissed.

Harry shook his head and tried to refocus. On a vague hunch, he’d asked the harassed almost-Squibs over in Accounting to grant him access to the last ten year’s worth of expense reports from the Obliviator Department. If Harry was right - and he prayed he wasn’t . . . Regardless, the best way to sniff out a rat in the Ministry was to look for missing gold.

His Com Coin started vibrating again, just when he caught the first blip in Obliviator records. Not an old one even. Two weeks ago, Francis Nott billed for an incident. Obliviators got paid a flat salary plus “complexity fee” for every incident they handled, which was ridiculous but since the Department was brimming with Purebloods there was no hope of getting anyone in power to change that little policy. The old timers informed Harry it’d been a Herculean effort to pass a law requiring Obliviators to file a report with the Auror Department every time they performed their duties to make sure there was _some_ accountability when Memory Charms were deployed.

Which Francis Nott had not filed one two weeks ago. Harry had been completing his yearly month long shift as Auror-Obliviator liaison and there hadn’t been a single incident during his last three days on duty.

His Com Coin was still vibrating, niggling at his side like a stray itch as he tried to think.

“Is anyone going to answer that?” demanded Harry to the entire the department.

“Answer what, asshole?” and old Auror shouted back.

Which finally clued Harry in that he was getting a personal message. Directly from the rookie currently in charge of answering summons from St. Mungo’s:

_Sir, you have to come to St. Mungo’s. Your son is hurt._

* * *

 

Tom’s head was _pounding_. All over, like an elephant was playing jump rope inside his head. He bit his cheek to keep from whimpering like a baby.

“Baby, you have to take your Draught,” the young mediwitch who’d mended his broken arm tried crooning at him. “You’ll feel so much better after, I promise.”

Tom brought his knees closer to his chest and curled in on himself further. People were bustling around him like ants. Countless alarms from other patients at St. Mungo’s Emergency Room went on and on and _on_ , each one making Tom feel like someone was stabbing his ears with hot knives.

“Honey - ”

“Shut up, I want my Dad!” Tom screamed. Though Harry was going to be so _mad_.

Someone grabbed his shoulder and Tom inched away until he felt the edge of the uncomfortable hospital bed he'd been deposited on. The hand followed him so Tom hiccuped, terrified he was going to start bawling like a newborn.

“Tom,” he heard Harry’s voice say tiredly. “Tom, it’s me.”

Harry’s sudden appearance made Tom’s throat as tight as Dwight’s fist had. He couldn’t keep painful sob from escaping his mouth and next thing he knew, his face was buried in Harry’s chest. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he gasped between sobs, then cried harder when Harry wrapped an arm around his shoulder and lifted him off the bed. He wrapped his limbs around his dad like a crab. “I just got mud in my blood I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Tom,” said Harry -

\- it _wasn’t_ , Harry was never going to believe him -

“Please have a little bit of potion,” said Harry, threading his fingers through Tom’s hair.

Though Harry didn’t pull, Tom still couldn’t help but lift his head a little. The glass was hovering just above his eyes, a colorless liquid barely visible close to the rim.

“You don’t need to drink it all,” said Harry. “Even one sip will help.”

Reluctantly, Tom let go of the back of Harry’s robes and reached for the glass. The mediwitch had done something to fix his nausea but Tom still made sure not to draw a breath when he brought the glass to his lips just in case it had a weird smell and made him hurl all over Harry. It tasted like nothing so his caution was probably unnecessary and it hadn’t even touched his stomach when Tom felt his pounding headache lessening, or maybe he just didn’t care about it anymore. He took one more sip, then pushed it away when his eyelids grew heavy and all the sounds around him became weirdly muffled.

Tom didn’t quite manage not to pass out a few seconds later.

* * *

 

 _I have to admit I’m impressed_ , Voldemort commented as Harry observed Dwight Lemming’s corpse.

Something had burned a hole through the boy’s sternum, though thankfully not entirely through his heart. No one had been tasked with the awful job of cleaning all that blood off St. Michel’s floor. Francis Nott - the Obliviator who had responded to a hail from The Improper Use of Magic Office about an incident at Tom Riddle's Muggle school - certainly wouldn’t have.

_At his age, I hadn’t yet envisioned anything quite this vicious._

Harry had been ready to swallow every last of Voldemort’s taunts. He had waited - was still waiting - for the day Tom revealed murderous tendencies but the truth was the boy was . . . _serene_. He showed no interest in hurting others, actually showed very little interest in other people at all, and though Harry hardly ever acquiesced to his demands to learn magic or to at least let Annie home school him, he seemed happy enough. If not for Voldemort's sneering comments, Harry might've forgotten who exactly he was dealing with considering how well behaved Tom was most of the time.

Harry never forgot who he was dealing with so it wasn’t until Tom had crawled into his lap to blubber about _mud and blood_ that Harry allowed himself a few seconds to hope, which snapped him out of his terrified rage long enough to _think_.

He spared one last moment to apologize to young Dwight Lemming’s body for having met such an awful end and then left St. Mungo’s morgue.

The mediwitch in charge of Tom was reluctant to release a child to a man who’d dropped him off at a Muggle school while ill, especially when said child had been crying hysterically about an as-of-yet to be treated phantom headache, but no one could spend seven years dealing with Voldemort’s venom without developing a certain kind of personality. Harry let the woman rant for a few minutes, then reminded her that no Auror was going to sign any document - medical or not - that would keep Harry Riddle from his son.

There were at least five who'd sign anything that would make Harry's life difficult, but the mediwitch didn't know about them.

Harry took advantage of the Calming Draught's effects and took Tom home via Side Along Apparition. Despite the potion, Tom's eyebrows were furrowed when Harry put him to bed. He tossed and whimpered as though in the grips of a particularly nasty nightmare, then curled into a fetal position.

Harry's insides boiled.

Once, his rage would've have turned him into an unfocused blast more likely to hurt himself and those around him than whatever had infuriated him in the first place. Fortunately, age - or maybe just Voldemort's influence - had honed Harry's rage into a guided missile.

He passed a thumb over Tom's eyebrows and sent Dumbledore an urgent message via Com Coin. Voldemort aside, Dumbledore was the best Legilimens in the world. If anyone could undo whatever Francis Nott had done to Tom's mind, it was him.

Harry sat on the floor besides Tom's bed to wait. Francis Nott was most likely home, secure that his money and position would protect him from any consequences that torturing a seven year old child - no, _Mudblood_ \- might bring. Harry had no reason to rush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: death of a child; child abuse.


	3. Rotten Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My return to fanfiction continues.

_Come to my house ASAP. An Obliviator’s done something to Tom’s mind._

When he first saw the message Albus assumed Harry meant the spirit, except he always referred to his spiritual tenant as Voldemort and . . . the Obliviators wouldn’t hesitate to risk a child’s mind.

Even with the Elder Wand, cutting through the sea of Charms and Seals around Harry’s supposedly Muggle home was tricky. He was considering Apparating just outside the blasted place and knocking on the door to save time when he finally made it through and, guided mostly by luck and instinct, aimed to appear in the child’s room. He found Harry sitting on the floor just beside young Tom’s bed, a blank look behind his glasses. On the bed, the boy made a tiny distressed sound and tossed his head to the side.

Albus wasted no time with pleasantries and sidestepped Harry’s still form, reaching for the child’s forehead. His cheeks were sallow against the white sheets and his eyebrows were furrowed in what Albus hoped wasn’t pain.

“When was the spell cast?” asked Albus, conjuring a stool close to the bed.

“Late this afternoon,” said Harry, rising to his feet. “It’s been getting worse.”

Albus nodded to himself, then starting wading through Tom’s mind.

There were no defenses - what seven year old had any - but Albus’ first instinct was to recoil. A fog of self-loathing was trying to seep into Tom’s consciousness, something foul and desperate to eek a piece of life out of its host’s identity. No Memory Charm worked in such a way, but there were old branches of combat Legilimency designed to instill dread, pain, and self doubt in their targets.

“Who did this?” asked Albus.

“That’s not important now,” said Harry. “Is he gonna be alright?”

“He’s . . . resilient,” said Albus.

Young Tom was struggling to keep his mind clean of outside influences. Against an accomplished Legilimens, he wouldn’t pose a problem, but whoever had attempted the nasty piece of Legilimency had been anything but. Thankfully.

“I will need some time,” added Albus, “but I believe I can cleanse his mind of this assault.”

“Good,” said Harry. A second later, he was gone.

Albus didn’t spare a moment to consider going after him. Whatever Harry did to the Obliviator responsible would be too kind as far as Albus was concerned.

* * *

Francis Nott felt lighter than he had in years. After months of losses and disappointment at Exploding Snap tables, Lady Luck dropped Harry Riddle's Mudblood rat on his lap. Francis' Legilimency would either shape him into the docile servant he was meant to be, or it would kill him. Either result would take Harry Riddle down a notch or two.

He hummed a jaunty tune as he Apparated in his private study, trying to decide which heirloom he should take to the goblin's gambling hall. Surely his late father's golden pince-nez would at least buy entry, then it would be a matter of waiting for one of his friends to loan him enough tokens to start a game. He couldn't waste his run of good luck - 

"For fuck's sake, Nott," a voice called from behind him. "I don't have all night."

Francis whirled around, his heart ricocheting all over his chest at that voice.

Harry Riddle sat on his desk, a glass of Francis' most prized - and pricey - brandy on his hand. Those filthy Mudblood lips had touched the same cup Francis' own lips touched every night. Rage seared through Francis' fog of terror. How dare the filthy piece of slime? How _dare_ he?

"You can't be here," spat Francis.

"Obviously, I can," said Riddle, sipping some brandy. "Please," he added as Francis' wand-arm inched toward his robes. "Don't embarrass yourself by trying to pull out your wand."

Oh, how Francis hated that supercilious face, how badly he dreamed of ripping the stupid glasses away and drowning it in the mud where it belonged. It wasn't right for an animal to traipse about in the Wizarding world telling his betters what to do. "I'll see you rot in Azkaban for this! The Aurors - "

"Not a single Auror would side with an Obliviator in this kind of spat," interrupted Riddle. "You of all people should know how nepotism works."

"So you think you can here and . . . what?" Francis knew exactly what. "Get even?"

"No," said Riddle, his nose scrunching up as though he'd smelled something foul. "Not even. 'Even' would be me going upstairs to mind rape your daughter for a little while, Nott. That'd make us even, but I have my limits. Maybe."

Francis pictured it - this whip-cord thin bug slithering to his precious baby, and gagged. "You don't understand," he started, meaning to explain that he'd only tried to steer the Mudblood brat towards his rightful place in nature, but Riddle wouldn't even let him speak.

"I understand perfectly," Riddle said, slamming Francis' glass on the table. A touch of brandy spilled over as Riddle rose to his full height. "We all got nasty voice in the back of our heads. Most of the time, I'm pretty good at telling mine to fuck off, but he brings up a lot of good points tonight, Nott."

Francis took an involuntary step back when Riddle walked around his mahogany desk.

"Killing you - quick, I wouldn't even have to hurt you - would be like wiping a smudge of gangrene off the world." Riddle laughed out a short, bitter laugh. "Not so different than what you think of me, isn't it?"

"Please," said Francis. Lady Luck had abandoned him for the night, and with her had gone his pride. "I have money - "

"No you don't," said Riddle. "You've gambled your entire family fortune away. Not that you could buy me off with all the gold at Gringotts even if you hadn't. I'm beyond what you know. You can't buy me with gold."

Francis backed against the wall of his study. "You wouldn't want to besmirch your name - "

" _Fuck_ my name." Riddle stood so close to him now that Francis could see the candlelight dancing on his green eyes. "You know why I don't kill you right now?

"Scrimgeour - "

" - would slap my wrist, then thank me for sending your odious department a nice, clear message."

Francis' knees buckled, but he refused to crumble under a bug.

"I don't kill you because it's be too good for you," Riddle continued. "Because I'm not gonna to become a murderer because of you. Because after all the people you've driven crazy - Muggle, Half-blood, or Pureblood - you deserve to a lifetime of feeding Dementors. Because if you were dead, you wouldn't get to live knowing all your precious friends know that when it came down to it, all the blood supremacy bullshit meant nothing to you."

"What're you t-talking about?"

"Oh, I know all about that, Nott." Riddle smiled. "How you've been helping the Half-blood Liberation League with their little _Amortentia_ scheme. How many Muggle's minds have you wiped knowing they were gonna bring a dirty Mudblood rat into the world? Or did you go back afterwards and wiped them off the face of the Earth? Like a boy trying to hide the pieces of a broken vase from Mommy?"

Francis sputtered. A blast of magic broke through his door, and he was pathetically relieved to see the Weasley Auror who worked with Riddle bursting through the door.


	4. The Department of Magical Education

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter is old, from way, way back when I first wrote this story in the middle of undergrad. I'm not sure if it fits with the previous chapter, especially in regards to pacing.
> 
> But hey, I used to write way longer chapters back then, so that's a plus? At least if I try not to think about how little my writing has improved.

Emergency meetings at the Ministry of Magic never ran smoothly, not even in chaotic divisions like the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. For the Department of Magical Education—a division that had done more or less the exact same thing every year for centuries—trying to organize an emergency meeting proved as difficult as organizing a defense against an army of Poltergeist. Albus didn't think anyone in the department actually remembered the protocols for calling a session that hadn't been planned months ahead.

Since the Department of Magical Education didn't really have a large conference room of its own, they were using the largest conference room at Auror Headquarters to discuss the unexpected problem at Hogwarts. Representatives from several different divisions of the Ministry of Magic were seated around a large round mahogany table, some looking bored and others staring intently at the smoky figures hovering inside the Foe Glasses hanging on the walls of the conference room. The Head of the Department of Magical Education—a surprisingly frail looking old wizard named Icksmar Huntail—nervously shifted several rolls of parchment, continually re-adjusted a pair of large spectacles, and occasionally fiddled with the sleeves of his maroon robes.

"Do you think old Huntail realizes we're all waiting for his signal to start the meeting?" asked Professor Dippet.

Albus looked over at Mr. Huntail and shrugged lightly. "It's unlikely that he does," he said just as Mr. Huntail raised his old but oddly wrinkle-free face to look dazedly around the conference room.

Professor Dippet hummed and scratched his chin, looking calmer than everyone else in the room.

Except maybe for Harry, who'd apparently been dragged to the meeting by a stern looking Mr. Scrimgeour, and was staring off into space. Albus wondered if he was talking to his spirit—to Lord Voldemort. Inwardly, Albus smiled at the immaturity of the name. Perhaps he’d be more willing to believe Harry’s story if believing it didn’t mean having to accept that the most powerful Dark Wizard of Harry’s world had chosen such a juvenile moniker.

"Well then," Professor Dippet said, snapping Albus out of his musings just when Mr. Huntail bent down to pick up a scroll that rolled off the table. "I suppose I should hurry things along." He stood up with considerable grace for a man of his advanced years and waited for the room to quiet down and for Mr. Huntail to return to his previous spot. "Gentleman," he started in a firm voice, "we all know why we're here. I would like to remind everyone that this emergency, while inconvenient and unexpected, is ultimately a good development."

Several people at the table seemed to calm down, Mr. Huntail most of all. Albus remembered that Armando Dippet was an incredibly powerful and wise wizard even though he'd grown lax over the last few decades.

"And now I'll lend the floor to our very capable Transfiguration instructor and Head of Gryffindor House," continued Professor Dippet before turning to Albus with an easy smile. "Please explain the situation."

And for once, Albus had assumed that he would not be expected to bear the responsibility of safeguarding Hogwarts' interests. He held back a tired sigh and readied himself for a verbal struggle, wishing that he didn't hate public speaking so much.

"This upcoming September, Hogwarts will need to accommodate seven-hundred-and-fourteen first year students," he told the room at large. Mr. Huntail cringed and Barnett Malfoy straightened in his chair. "Only five-hundred-and-eighty seventh year students will be graduating. We fear that Hogwarts does not have a staff large enough to handle an extra hundred-and-forty-four students."

"Why not just hire more professors?" someone Albus didn't recognize asked. "Most wizards would kill for the honor of teaching at Hogwarts."

"It's very likely that Hogwarts will be dealing with a sharp increase in first years for several more terms," Mr. Scrimgeour answered.

"That's still good news," another man Albus didn't recognize interjected. "Haven't we all been worrying because our numbers have been dwindling since the Great Muggle War? Hogwarts has been practically empty for decades. Hire more teachers, I say!"

"There's something dear Professor Dumbledore has failed to clarify, isn't there?" Mr. Malfoy asked.

Albus looked at him impassively, trying to discern an expression from his blank aristocratic face. Even his long blond hair seemed determined to remain immobile.

"Well spit it out," said Sophia Malfoy with an impatient look towards her youngest son. She wore simple black robes and her long grey hair was tied in a tight bun at the back of her head. Albus had always been fond of her bluntness. Had she been a man, he might have developed a romantic interest in her when they attended Hogwarts together.

"All those extra students are Mudbloods," Barnett declared, allowing an ugly sneer to show itself on his features.

The room erupted into a flurry of anxious verbosity. Several people shouted questions in an attempt to be heard over other the din in the room. Scrolls were banged against the table, some people begged for order, and someone actually threw a quill at another person. Poor Mr. Huntail looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The only people who remained calm besides Albus and Professor Dippet were Mr. Scrimgeour, Harry, Mr. Malfoy, and Sophia.

Albus reached for his wand, deciding it was as good a moment as any to make his political stance known. "Mr. Barnett," he boomed, his voice amplified. Deafening silence blanketed the room. Albus put his wand down. "Last week, I spent hours helping a child who'd been brutally _assaulted_ for the crime of lacking our so-worshiped blood purity." He'd freed young Tom Riddle of that rotten magic, but only time would tell if the boy had truly been unscathed. "Witnessing such brutality makes one thing clear for me: I, and everyone else in the Wizarding World with any claim to decency, must pledge to advocate for Muggleborns. Especially Muggleborn children."

The room stared at him with varying levels of admiration, approval, rage, and fear. Several looked on the verge of argument, Orion Black especially, but Albus had a certain reputation. Harry stared straight ahead, though he must know that at least some people in the room guessed that the child Albus spoke about was his son.

"Why are Aurors and Obliviators here?" Sophia broke the silence, looking towards Mr. Scrimgeour and Harry and the Obliviators sitting beside them, Orion and Delphinus Black, whose dark hair looked blacker than ever in the room's relatively dim light. Orion had been the Head Obliviator for more than two decades. He was dutifully grooming his younger brother Delphinus to take over the position after his retirement.

Mr. Scrimgeour took Sophia's question as his cue to speak up. "Newly gathered evidence suggests that a group of unknowns has been brewing and selling _Amortentia_ in large quantities. It's likely that all these new students were conceived by wizards who used the potion to engage in fleeting affairs with Muggles."

"Newly gathered," said Orion with a snort. "It's been going on for years."

"But reports only reached my office three weeks ago," Mr. Scrimgeour responded. "Since then, we've captured some of the sellers. In due time, we'll have dismantled the entire ring."

"Amazing work," Delphinus said. "I only wish your _office_ had gotten reports about this before the magical community was flooded by Muggleborn children."

"My office is in charge of managing crime in the Wizarding World," Mr. Scrimgeour said through gritted teeth. "It's hardly my fault _your_ department failed to report illegal activity that crossed into the Muggle world."

"Gentlemen," Albus interrupted before the room dissolved into chaos once more. "We're not here to assign blame. We're here to plan how to handle the influx of magical children at Hogwarts."

"Who says they all have to be accepted at Hogwarts?" asked a short witch Albus didn't recognize. "Hogwarts has an obligation to _magical_ children."

"Which these new students _are_ ," Albus said.

"You can't seriously be suggesting that we risk the education of our children to provide for a bunch of Muggleborns," another witch said. At least she’d refrained from throwing the word Mudblood around.

Before Albus could respond, Professor Dippet joined the discussion. "Hogwarts' duty is towards all children who display magical talents, regardless of what their parentage might be. We must accommodate these new students. And despite the deplorable circumstances of their conception, we should all be celebrating their existence. The Wizarding World needs new stock if we want to avoid extinction."

"Rubbish!" said Delphinus Black. "The Wizarding World needs to promote marriages between Purebloods! Mixing with Muggles will only dilute our magic!"

"These children's ancestry is not the issue being discussed at this meeting," Albus said in an attempt to halt another argument about blood purity. "We're here to outline a plan to deal with an unexpected influx of students, not to argue whether they'll be allowed into Hogwarts or not. They have _already_ been admitted." He looked around the room, daring all the scowling faces to argue with him. When no one spoke up, he directed his gaze towards Mr. Huntail. "Please, what does the Department of Magical Education suggest?"

Mr. Huntail looked like a badger who'd just realized that it'd have to fight a dragon. Albus smiled at him gently and hoped that he didn't take too long to speak up.

"For now," started Mr. Huntail in a weak tone, "we must hire new Professors for Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, History of Magic, and Charms."

"See!" said the same wizard who'd spoken earlier. "This isn't something to blow out of proportion. So we'll need to hire a few more teachers. It's not like the Ministry can't afford it."

If only it were that simple. Albus wondered why no one else seemed to realize that the current situation wouldn't go away after the current year. To him, it was obvious that this meeting hadn't been called just because Hogwarts would need a few extra teachers, but it seemed that most people in the room didn't understand that simple fact.

"For now, it's all that needs to be done," said Harry, twirling a quill absentmindedly, still looking like he wasn't really interested in the proceedings of the meeting. "There's probably going to be another large group of Muggleborns next year. And a bigger one the year after that. And so on for Merlin knows how long."

That was all true, but Albus wished Harry had found a more diplomatic way to phrase it. His words didn't cause the same kind of explosion Barnett Malfoy's had, but they'd certainly had an impact. Most people in the room seemed to have ceased breathing and turned their attention to Harry. To a culture so deeply steeped in blood supremacy, such a sharp increase in the number of Muggleborns threatened the very fabric of society.

Well, it was more accurate to say that it would threaten the supremacy that old Pureblood families of the Wizarding England enjoyed, but the Ministry would equate that with a threat to society at large. Most of the people in the room were Pureblood wizards and they were staring at Harry as if he was a swarm of Dementors personified. To make matters worse, Harry wasn't even wearing proper wizards' robes. He was slouching beside Mr. Scrimgeour in a simple, Muggle-styled green sweater, not even bothering look cowed by the large number of older Purebloods glaring at him.

"And you are?" Mr. Malfoy asked.

"Harry Riddle."

Next to Barnett, Sophia chuckled. "And I had assumed reports of your . . . _youth_ were exaggerated."

Harry tilted his head, probably as confused as Albus by the odd lilt to that statement.

"And what's a simple Auror doing in a Ministry administrative meeting." asked Mr. Malfoy.

Harry put his quill down and shrugged.

Mr. Scrimgeour responded for him. "Mr. Riddle is in charge of the investigation of the _Amortentia_ ring. He's here to answer any questions anyone has about the investigation's progress."

Albus scratched his chin and wondered at Mr. Scrimgeour's motivations. The man's secondary—if not primary—goal was to improve his political standing. Why had he brought someone as carelessly rude as Harry to a meeting that would require diplomatic finesse?

"Well?" Mr. Malfoy asked. Harry stared at him blankly until Mr. Malfoy sighed impatiently. "What progress have you made?"

If Harry was bothered by Mr. Malfoy condescending tone, he didn't show it. "Records show that Amortentia trafficking has been steadily increasing for at least ten years," he started, picking up his quill and tapping it against the table. "The sharpest spike was during 1930, when forty-seven people were arrested for using them. Last year, two hundred and fifteen people were arrested for the same thing."

"And why haven't you Aurors done anything to stop this before now?" a witch demanded.

Mr. Scrimgeour answered before Harry could. "The penalty for using Love Potions is fifteen Galleons. All we could do was charge the culprits and let them go. Most of them committed the same crime more than once." He looked at Harry and nodded.

"It's harder to tell when people started using _Amortentia_ on Muggles," Harry continued, "but according to Obliviator records—"

"How do you know about our reports?" Orion Black demanded.

"Because they're a matter of public record," Harry answered without even looking at Orion.

It was technically true, but Albus knew enough about Ministry politics to be aware that everyone was expected to ask for departmental permission before reviewing reports outside their own division.

"Anyway," Harry went on, "Obliviator reports show Muggle women who've been Obliviated because of complaints of being bewitched by strange men as far back as 1924. Considering the current influx of Muggleborns to Hogwarts, we can assume that large scale sales of _Amortentia_ have been going on since 1926 at the very least."

"Then why haven't you Aurors done anything to stop this?" a wizard asked in a distinctly nasal tone.

"There isn't much we could've done," Harry said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You just heard the penalties for using of Love Potions are rubbish."

"So you've gone and graphed the problem chronologically. Bravo!" Mr. Malfoy said and then started to clap mockingly. "I don't suppose you've actually found the culprits."

"It's someone very rich," Harry told him without affect. "The pushers we've caught don't have to pay for their Amortentia supply so they get to keep all the profit. We tried to track large scale orders for Amortentia ingredients, but whoever's brewing has been careful to avoid ordering everything in bulk from the same apothecary."

"So, in other words, you know next to nothing about the culprit," Mr. Malfoy said with a sneer.

"I wouldn't say that," Harry countered tonelessly. "The list of people who have enough money to flood the Wizarding World with Amortentia isn't exactly long."

"What exactly are you implying?" Orion Black demanded through gritted teeth.

"I'm not _implying_ anything," Harry said. "I'm saying that whoever's behind this probably belongs to the Wizarding nobility."

Predictably, that statement caused another burst of angry accusation throughout the room. Albus began to understand why Mr. Scrimgeour, who remained impassive throughout Harry's charged exchange with the two Pureblood wizards, had brought Harry to this meeting. Harry simply didn't care about insulting everyone in the room and Mr. Scrimgeour understood that he'd need to ruffle a few feathers among the rich and powerful if he wanted to catch the Amortentia ring leader. But he also knew that no one who accused the Wizarding nobility of promoting blood "dilution" could hope for a successful political career.

“A Pureblood would _never_ ,” started Mr. Malfoy.

“Francis Nott has brewed _Amortentia_ for them,” said Harry.

A hush fell over the room. The Blacks, the Malfoys, everyone present had deep connections to the Nott family, and because of those connections they knew of Francis’ Nott’s gambling problem. Financial ruin they could defend, but dilution of blood purity? That they could only deny, or condemn.

“Although,” said Harry with a little chuckle that made even Albus bristle, “it’s looking like he was just a cronnie hurting for money, so maybe it isn’t the Pureblood nobility. But then who’s powerful enough to pull off something like this?”

"This meeting is a waste of our time," Professor Dippet suddenly said told Albus. "We should excuse ourselves now that we have clearance to hire new professors. Mr. Huntail, I believe our business here is concluded. It's best we leave and let these law enforcement and finance people sort out the details."

Mr. Huntail looked ready to cry in gratitude as he stood up and hurriedly joined them. Professor Dippet nodded at the room and started to head out.

Before following them, Albus turned back towards the large table. "Harry," he started, "there're some affairs we need to discuss."

Harry glanced over at Mr. Scrimgeour who quickly seized the opportunity to send him out of the room. "Go.”

Not bothering to hide a sigh of relief, Harry quickly vacated his chair and joined Albus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal blog is [here](http://www.dynamicallyopposed.com/).


	5. Thoughts and Faults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back early. With new stuff that may or may not have improved from years ago.

Every time Tom remembered his prayers to learn magic, something inside him burst into a kind of hysterical laughter. Even if he weren’t startling at odd hours convinced that the eel Professor Dumbledore extracted from his mind had returned, he’d hate the endless hours of meditation. At some point during the third day, he’d begun to look forward to Aunt Rosalind’s nonsensical lectures about the connection between magic and raw emotion.

“Most people your age couldn’t cast spells even with a wand,” she’d said to Tom. “You have it in you to the most powerful wizard in all of Britain.”

That should’ve made Tom happy. Instead, he’d nodded and wondered, of all things, what Anthony was getting to without him.

He missed his stupid Muggle school and its easy assignments, even the often bland food and Anthony’s sniveling. Most of all, he missed going to Aunt Annie’s to eat leftover pastries and listen to Uncle Owen telling stories about his years in the city setting up unofficial boxing matches and scouring the ports for odd jobs.

Aunt Annie came to visit him once and got into one of those hissy adult fights with Harry about who exactly was taking care of Tom while he went off on Auror business. Harry has just shrugged and said something about all the food he left Tom every day and, when Aunt Annie looked ready to swallow him whole, he’d suggested that she could always take Tom to _her_ house if she was so concerned.

And Aunt Annie had stood frozen on the spot.

Tom understood, kind of. The stink of sizzling flesh hadn’t quite left his nostrils yet. He really hadn’t meant to kill Dwight, but did that really matter at the end of the day? Odette made him mad like clockwork and it wasn’t like he’d ever been shy with his complaints about her. Of course Aunt Annie didn’t want him anywhere near her daughter.

So Tom had spent the last two weeks meditating with either Harry or Aunt Rosalind, listening to boring lectures, failing to focus on his favorites books, or wandering from the house out to the growing Hawthorn tree in the backyard. At the moment, he sat on the kitchen table slathering a piece of bread with butter without any hope that he’d taste much of it.

Professor Dumbledore warned him that he’d feel wan for a little while. He supposed it wasn’t so bad to feel like his insides were as Spartan as Harry’s house--no pictures, ornaments, and the walls painted in the same faded green year after year, the only sign of life in the kitchen leftovers and in all the books lying around. It wasn’t like Tom was scared or anything so he always shook his head when Harry asked if he wanted to see Professor Dumbledore again. Yesterday, he’d even considered sneaking into Harry’s room just to break his boredom, which had to be a sign that he was improving.

The sound off the front door opening made him jump the same way Anthony did if the wind blew too strongly. He cursed at himself, then grabbed his buttered bread and inched closer to the door leading to the living room.

“You sure you’ve thought this through?” Mr. Weasley’s voice, Harry’s Auror partner. Tom pressed his back to the wall, hoping they wouldn’t come into the kitchen so he could listen to their conversation. “You’re sending him back to Muggle school?”

“Where else am I supposed to send him?” Harry responded, exasperated.

Tom’s heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to go back to school so bad he could cry like a little stupid baby.

“After what happened?” asked Mr. Weasley.

“He’s as calm as he’s going to be,” said Harry. “Dumbledore and Rosalind agree.”

“But--”

“I’m not looking to argue about this,” interrupted Harry, sighing tiredly. “I’ll meet you back Headquarters.”

“Fine,” said Weasley. “But he’s already killed someone Harry, accident or not. He does it again and as far as I’m concerned, it’s on you.”

The snapping pop of Apparition hit Tom. He was proud that he didn’t jump, at least for the second it took Harry to call out for him.

“I know you’re there.”

Tom stepped out from behind the wall, forcing himself to look up at Harry and making it as far as the shine of his glasses.

“I brought your favorite.” Harry gestured at a greasy brown bag, then herded Tom back to the kitchen. “Do you want to go back to school?”

Tom’s hand hovered over the bag. He wanted to nod, but he sensed that some kind of hesitation was appropriate.

“If you don’t want to go,” said Harry, “I won’t force you.”

“No, I wanna go,” said Tom, then attacked the bag as though he were much hungrier than he actually felt. He recognized the aroma of meatballs cooked with garlic sauce from the stand near the ministry, and normally he did go for it like a vulture. Harry’s own words.

“I used to do magic when I was little too,” Harry said, prompting Tom to stare up at him. “My aunt and uncle must have known what I was doing, but they didn’t want me to know I was magic so for a long time, I thought I was crazy.”

“You killed someone too?” Tom asked. “I mean, by mistake?”

“No,” said Harry, with a chuckle that made Tom want to look away. “I just climbed places I shouldn’t have been able to climb, broke my cousin’s things because I was jealous, made my hair grow out no matter how many times I got a bad haircut, harmless things like that.”

Tom did look away at that and bit into his meatball sandwich. Everyone thought the thing with Dwight hadn’t been his fault. In fact, they looked at Tom with something stuck between awe and pity, and maybe a little fear. Except for Harry, who gazed at Tom like he was a puzzle that only he knew the answer to.

“I always just wanted to get away,” continued Harry, “and a couple of times to get back at my cousin. Even then, all I could imagine was making him as bored as I was. So my question to you is, what exactly did you think that it burned through another kid’s sternum?”

“It was an accident,” said Tom. A drop of grease dripped from his bread down to the web between his thumb and index. Tom stared at it, his hands frozen on the sandwich.

“I believe you,” said Harry. “That’s doesn’t answer my question, though.”

“I was gagging and throwing up,” said Tom, stealing a glance to Harry’s hands on the table, at his long intertwined fingers. “I wanted to get to the bathroom and Dwight came at me and I got scared--”

“--did you?”

“ _Yes,_ ” said Tom, unable to keep himself from glaring up at Harry. “He’s--was bigger than me, and he tried to _choke_ me.”

Harry stared down at him, expression blank.

“So I thought,” Tom continued, refusing to look away, “I wish I could spit acid like a Vipertooth. And I guess I must have.”

“So, what did you learn?”

Tom held Harry’s gaze for as long as he could, thoughts racing through a maze of options. He had to look away eventually, grunting and letting his sandwich fall on the table. Harry was the only person in the world who never seemed satisfied with his answers.

“Tom.”

“I don’t know!” Tom yelled. “It wasn’t my fault. Everyone says so; why not you too?”

“What are you thinking right now?”

“Nothing!” Tom’s hands curled into fists. If he started crying over this, which wasn’t even his fault, he was going to hate Harry forever.

“Whatever it might be, it might come true,” said Harry. “That’s what magic is deep down: you think something, and it comes true. Especially when you’re feeling at your worst.”

“So what, then? I should never feel bad?” Tom’s voice got naked, like his private thoughts were jumping out of his mouth.

“People feel what they feel,” said Harry and Tom could spit at him, it was such a stupid, obvious thing to say. “I’m asking you to be more aware of your thoughts.”

Tom made a grunting noise.

“I know it’s not fair,” said Harry, but he didn’t sound all that sympathetic as far as Tom was concerned. “Most people think ‘I wish I could spit acid at this bastard’, and nothing happens. You think that and someone dies.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“In case you didn’t notice, Dwight Lemmings is dead regardless.”

Tom looked up at Harry, certain that he’d been handed a cheat sheet to Harry’s test, but in a language he couldn’t read. Yes, Dwight would still be dead no matter what happened next, so why were they still talking about it?

“Do you think you could kill someone again, Tom?”

“Well . . . probably,” admitted Tom because there was no point in lying to Harry, except about innocuous things he didn’t care about.

“And you want to go back around people anyway?”

Tom frowned. It really wasn’t his fault and even if it happened again, what else were Obliviators for?

“Do you?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “It’s boring here, Dad. And I promise I’ll do all the things we talked about before. I’ll tell you if anyone’s bothering me, or if I hate them, and if I’m getting mad, I’ll count backwards in fractions of three in my head and picture the color black really intensely so I don’t do magic accidentally, and--”

“--Tom, I know,” said Harry. “You’ll do whatever needs to be done to keep going to school. But I need you to understand that even if you’re perfect from now own, Dwight Lemmings will still be dead.”

“I know that and I feel really bad about it . . .”

Tom stopped, taken aback by the way Harry’s shoulders relaxed. That was it? Harry just wanted him to feel bad? He’d been wandering around the house forgetting to eat and occasionally crying at nothing, and . . . what? Harry hadn’t noticed?

“. . . and I won’t bother you about learning magic anymore,” Tom went on. “I get it now; I should wait ‘till I’m older ‘cause I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

“Alright, alright,” said Harry, offering Tom a slight smile.

Tom found himself smiling back, though honestly, Harry was not being fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, still [blogging](http://www.dynamicallyopposed.com/).


	6. Living Dolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is still mostly old work, though cleaned up a little bit from my younger self's repetitive, info-dumpy prose. It's been long enough since I wrote this that I don't remember most of this. Every chapter is a cheesy revelation.
> 
> Note: I have possible trigger warnings at my end notes.

Harry looked up from a boring interdepartmental memo about proper etiquette in the lifts of all bloody things, and caught Diggory’s eye. Diggory motioned out to the hallway and Harry tapped Septimus’ shoulder, then stood up.

"Level four's being attacked by a bunch of unidentified . . . somethings," Diggory said when they joined him on the way to the lifts.

The day couldn't get any worse. Harry had already listened to Orion Black obfuscate about his department’s comically unbalanced finances, and now some idiocy at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. What else could possibly go wrong? Even the inexplicable snickers that some people randomly started throwing his way were getting so irritating that he was seriously considering investigating their origin.

"What’s the situation?" Septimus asked as they entered one of the lifts and waved away a couple of witches who tried to get in with them. They scowled at Diggory's Auror badge as a group of purple memos flew over their heads and entered the lift.

"Scrimgeour says we need to keep this quiet," answered Diggory as the doors slid close. Despite supposedly being in a hurry, he didn't ask to be taken to Level Four. "I think the Department of Mysteries is involved in this. Merlin only knows what we're going to find there, so be ready for anything."

Septimus sighed. "I hate going into situations blind just because Unspeakables can't be arsed to share information," he said with furrowed eyebrows, pulling out his wand.

Harry hummed. ". . . We don't have to go there completely blind," he said. There was never going to be an opportune moment to share his tracker maps, so he might as well do it at a time they'd be useful. If worst came to worst, he could always Obliviate them.

The idea made him feel vaguely ill but Voldemort perked up at the possibility that Harry might have to start a fight with the other two Aurors.

"Riddle," said Diggory. "We're kind of in a hurry so if you've got something up your creepy genius sleeve, now's the time to share it."

Harry sighed and glanced over at Septimus, who looked at him with the usual calm, welcoming expression.

"Well?" Diggory demanded again and gave him a flat look. "Naturalists might be getting mauled as you play the reluctant schoolgirl."

“I have something,” admitted Harry.

Septimus leaned forward.

“ _And?_ ” snapped Diggory.

“Before I show you anything, you have to promise it stays between us,” said Harry.

“I’m not gonna hand you a blanket promise,” said Diggory. “Either show us or let’s go.”

With a frown, Harry pulled out his wand and the Ministry map out of his pocket, then bent down and rolled the scroll open on the floor. Septimus and Diggory leaned down, Diggory looking impatient and Septimus looking apprehensive. Before he could change his mind, Harry used the tip of his wand to trace the rune he'd set up as a password on the center of the parchment. Instantly, the words "British Ministry of Magic" appeared, followed by a list of all the sections located in the underground facility.

"Bloody _buggering_ hell . . ." Diggory mumbled faintly just as Harry tapped the words "Level Four" on the parchment.

A detailed map of the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures covered the entirety of the scroll. Hundreds of labeled shoeprints marked the location of everyone currently on the floor.

"You can't tell anyone about this," repeated Harry.

"Obviously not!" cried Diggory.

Harry held back a sigh of relief. Septimus looked like he wanted to protest but decided to hold his tongue. He wouldn’t go to Scrimgeour without Diggory’s support.

"It looks like they've got everyone quarantined," Harry said quickly, eager to avoid a conversation about what to do with the maps.

Level Four's main lobby was almost deserted, the people clustered in corners at the surrounding offices. Almost no one remained in the rooms farthest from the exit. Some stood close enough to each other that the labels on their shoeprints were superimposed against one another, making it difficult to read the names. At times of movements, footprints scurried from one end of the room to the other with no discernible rhyme or reason. "Something's obviously loose in there," Septimus said. "Depending on the number of . . . intruders, we might need backup."

"You can forget about getting it anytime soon," Diggory responded. "The Department of Mysteries has already decided to watch its hands off this mess. They won't allow more Aurors in until we've failed so they can blame the whole fiasco on us."

"I don't think it's going to be all that dangerous," said Harry. "Nobody's dying so far. We can ask Helena Boneer for details when we get there." He pointed at Ms. Boneer's prints at the lobby's entrance, near the shoeprints of two other wizards who probably worked with her. Their names were Robert and Mitchell Handers and Harry couldn't recall if he'd ever seen their prints at the Ministry before.

"You know Helena?" asked Diggory.

"No," answered Harry. "But she's an Unspeakable—"

"Mousy Helena Boneer is an _Unspeakable_?" interrupted Septimus. "That can't be true."

"She goes to Level Nine every day. No other woman does that, it's why I remembered her name," said Harry. Then he pointed at the deserted areas in Level Four before either of them could go off on a tangent about her. "Try to memorize which rooms are empty. There's not much else we can do without more info."

"All right," Diggory started in leader's voice, "here's the plan: we head there, ask Mousy Helena for details—I'll do that, she fancied me back at Hogwarts—and then we call for backup as soon as we can. Ready?"

Harry and Septimus nodded as they stood up. Diggory tapped the Level Four sign on the lift wall with his wand. Harry wiped the map and put it back in his pocket. He mentally asked Voldemort—who was predictably excited but uncharacteristically silent—if he had the faintest clue about what was happening.

_I don't, but the Department of Mysteries rarely allows other departments into their affairs. They're the only ones not shackled by silly notions about morals and Dark Magic._

The lift stopped and descending and the door slid open. Behind the lift doors was the beautiful lobby for Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. On the eastern wall, a wizard traded arrows with an old centaur, a witch exchanged bags with a scowling goblin, and a wizard chewed Gillyweed as he readied himself to jump into a pond were merpeople waited for him. On the western wall, wizards worked with dangerous, magical animals like Hippogriffs and Dementors. On the roof, a painting of a large red dragon occasionally breathed fire downwards.

Standing near the lift was a witch Harry would not describe as "mousy" since she was only slightly shorter than him. "You've finally made it," she said when she spotted the three of them walking out of the lift. "I was beginning to wonder if Aurors understood what the word emergency means." The two other wizards, both wearing Unspeakable robes, their faces obscured, turned towards them.

"Hah, hah," responded Diggory flatly. "What's the problem here?"

"Five wraiths escaped their prison lockets and are currently looking for hosts," said the Unspeakable to Boneer's right, his magically altered to sound flat and anonymous. "We've quarantined the majority of the level and must now find and entrap all the wraiths again."

"Alright," said Diggory. "I assume you got more lockets for us."

Boneer nodded and reached into the pockets of her dark brown robes. She walked over to Diggory and gave him a bunch of silver lockets with entrapment runes carved into them. Diggory smirked as she took her hands back, but she seemed determined to keep her round, pale face blank. If she ever fancied Diggory, she was obviously over it.

"What are you doing with Unspeakables?" Diggory asked.

"Ms. Boneer has been consulting with us about the nature of Spirit Entrapment Runes," said the other Unspeakable. Maybe. Hard to say who spoke with their voices sounding identical thanks to the Unspeakable glamour.

Diggory raised an eyebrow at Boneer but didn't say anything else. He passed Harry and Septimus three lockets each and motioned them to follow him. "Where did the wraiths escape?"

"The right side," Boneer answered.

Diggory nodded, then moved forward with Harry and Septimus in tow. He opened the door to the main hallway, then headed right. Harry examined one of his lockets and Voldemort noted that the runes on it were fairly basic. _Something is amiss_ , he told Harry.

"Something's wrong," said Septimus the moment they made a turn towards the Kneazle Research and Breeding Center.

"The Department of Mysteries wouldn't call us here to deal with wraiths," agreed Diggory. "Any ideas, Riddle?"

_Even your idiot Auror partners can see there's a serious problem. Let me take over._

Harry had to agree that Unspeakables were extremely suspicious, but he was not eager to let Voldemort loose on the Ministry. Annoyed, Voldemort tried to take over his limbs and Harry instantly stopped moving just so he could keep control of his body. Septimus and Diggory turned around, both looking worried by Harry's abrupt stop.

"What's wrong?" asked Septimus and Diggory quickly turned back around, probably to make sure they weren't ambushed by anything.

_For Merlin's sake, Potter! What purpose would it serve for me to hurt your friends? Besides causing you delightful angst, that is? Either let me take over or let them go face whatever the Department of Mysteries has lost in here alone._

_How do I know you won't just run the moment I give you access to my magic?_ Harry mentally shot the question at him just as Septimus grabbed his shoulder.

"Weasley, what's the problem?" asked Diggory.

_Just because I wouldn't trust you to handle yourself against a swarm of drunken leprechauns, it doesn't mean that I lack any confidence in my ability to destroy anything the Unspeakables have lost control over._

"Harry?" Septimus asked again, concern visible in his widened eyes.

Voldemort taunted Harry with images of Septimus' mangled corpse being mauled by unidentifiable creatures, surrounded by bloodied Kneazles.

Suddenly, Harry heard a strange, shrill growl and a spell blast. "What in the world . . ." he heard Diggory's voice say. Septimus turned around and tried to shield Harry with his body.

The sound of another blast finally convinced Harry to let Voldemort to the forefront of their shared body. Even after so many years, Voldemort refused to risk death by letting Harry fight anything even remotely dangerous alone.

_If you hurt them, I'll land us both at St. Mungo's_ , Harry warned as he retreated to the back of his own mind and lent Voldemort mastery of his limbs, trying to ignore the claustrophobic sense of becoming a spectator to his own life. Voldemort didn't waste any time and stepped out from behind Septimus' back, eager to call on Harry's magic.

In front of Diggory, two black Kneazles tried to claw each other's eyes out, both letting out shrill screams. Harry didn't know what he'd been expecting, but that certainly hadn't been it.

"Are you alright?" Septimus asked Volde—him, looking at the Kneazles with a confused frown and aiming his wand at them half-heartedly.

"One of those just came at me," said Diggory, shaking his head as if to clear it.

"These are not wraiths," Voldemort said, pointing Harry's wand at the Kneazles.

Much to Harry's horror, he non-verbally blasted a simple Reductor Curse at their heads. Pieces of meat and fur flew in all directions and stained the floor and walls with blood. The bodies twitched miserably for a few seconds, then went still. Harry almost wrenched control of his body back, but he figured the damage had already been done. It was better not to provoke Voldemort while he had the slightest chance of turning around and killing either Septimus or Diggory.

_Finally! A shred of caution and rationality from you!_ Voldemort told him. The sarcasm grated at Harry's nerves.

"What the bloody hell?" Septimus cried at Harry.

"I couldn't tell which one was possessed," shrugged Voldemort.

Hearing his own voice giving life to Voldemort’s thoughts, no matter how innocuous, would never stop giving Harry vertigo.

"I thought you said they weren't wraiths," Diggory protested.

"They're not," said Voldemort.

He pulled out the scroll with the Ministry map, quickly traced the rune to unlock it with the tip of Harry's wand, then tapped level four. No one had moved since the last time they'd looked at it. Even Boneer and the Handers were still at the lobby. Voldemort put the map away again.

"That was the first one. You better hope they've all chosen Kneazles as hosts." Though Voldemort was certainly hoping he'd get to fight at least one wizard.

Septimus started moving forward. "If not wraiths, then what's possessing them?" he asked as he gingerly tried to step over the Kneazle brains.

". . . I'm not sure," Voldemort answered, but Harry instantly knew he was lying.

_You think they're Dementors?_

_They_ used _to be Dementors_ , Voldemort answered as Diggory followed Septimus' lead and stepped over the Kneazle corpses. _The Unspeakables are looking for way to rob them of sentience, probably because the Ministry would prefer them as mindless servants._

He levitated the Kneazle corpses out of his way before following Diggory and Septimus. They both glared at Harry, Diggory looking disgusted and angry and Septimus looking mostly disturbed. Their obvious unease almost kept Harry from grasping the implications of what Voldemort had said.

"These lockets are useless," Voldemort told Diggory and Septimus, then threw them behind him. "Whatever or whoever has been possessed will rabidly attack you—or anything else they see—and will not stop until they've killed you and destroyed your corpses."

"What—" Septimus started to ask but Diggory grabbed his arm and shook his head. "We'll talk about this and your map later," he said to Harry.

Voldemort used Harry's face to smirk at him. Of course. When did Voldemort ever not do anything in his power to put as much distance between Harry and his friends?

"We should head to separate areas," said Voldemort. "I'll head to the Centaur Liaison Office. You two handle the Kneazles."

"No," Diggory responded with a smirk of his own and then patted Septimus' arm. "Weasley here will handle the rabid Kneazles. I'll back you up with the Centaurs."

Septimus frowned but didn't say anything.

Voldemort shrugged and they continued down the hallway. They heard shrill mewls and cat screams as they neared the Kneazle Breeding and Research Center.

"Be careful," Septimus said, turning towards the left at the end of the hallway. Voldemort turned rightwards and Diggory followed him.

"There was no need to kill those cats," he said.

"I spared them a terrible fate," answered Voldemort, taking great pleasure in rolling Harry's eyes. "Trust me."

_Could you at least_ try _to sound like me_? demanded Harry. _This is why everyone thinks I'm crazy!_ Diggory opened his mouth, but they heard something scratching at a door just ahead labeled "Center for the Processing of Possessed Muggle Toys". Gremlins did like to possess Muggle toys, but no one would call Aurors to deal with them. Diggory looked over at Voldemort, his handsome face warped by furrowed eyebrows. Voldemort aimed Harry's wand at the door and blasted it open.

"There might be a person in there!" Diggory yelled.

Harry cursed at himself. Trying to selectively stop Voldemort from using certain spells was futile because he cast magic so instinctively and quickly that Harry only knew which spell he wanted after he saw it happening.

Thankfully, there wasn't anyone alive in the room. Ugly and worn Muggle dolls littered the floor, some of them singed by Voldemort’s spell. A few tense seconds ticked away, then a black cloud of smoke started materializing over the broken doll pieces.

"That's definitely not a wraith or gremlin," said Diggory, taking a cautious step backwards.

He was right. Wraiths were nothing more than the embodiment of ugly emotions. They manifested as gaunt faces made up of white mist and tried to drive humans to depression and irritability. Many of them together could incite riots, but they could not really possess anything. They never haunted objects. And gremlins looked like rainbow-colored gas when they weren't inhabiting an object.

The black mist—which Voldemort insisted was the remnant of a Dementor—floated for a few seconds and then . . . shot itself at another group of toys. Before their eyes, two different dolls became animated and twitchily started walking over to Voldemort and Diggory. The tallest one was dressed in a pink dress stained by dirt and was missing large chunks of blond hair. By its side, a tall, naked baby doll with a body made up of linen and feathers wobbled, its plastic legs struggled to carry a fuzzy, formless body stained with dirt and unidentifiable fluids.

"This is so bizarre," said Diggory.

Voldemort said nothing and simply blasted the two dolls again. "We need to let them posses something alive and then kill it," he told Diggory as the black smoke simply appeared again and hovered over the dolls' broken pieces. The smoke made a move towards them and Voldemort deflected them with a simple shield.

"There has to be another way," Diggory protested as two more dolls slowly became animated. Voldemort felt disdain at his unwillingness to sacrifice any living animal to get rid of them.

_If they used to be Dementors, maybe a Patronus will work against them_ , suggested Harry.

Voldemort considered it as he blasted more newly animated dolls. Mostly to satisfy his curiosity, he pointed at the black mist, pictured breaking into Dumbledore’s tomb and stealing the Elder Wand, and said " _Expecto Patronum!_ ".

Unfortunately, Dumbledore's dried up corpse filled Harry with nothing but disgust and despair, so they only managed to produce flimsy glowing mist instead of a fully corporeal Patronus.

Voldemort growled and sent Harry a wave of derision and disgust.

Diggory pointed his own wand at the black mist and said " _Expecto Patronum!_ ". Immediately, a fully realized monkey Patronus shot out of his wand and quickly attacked the black mist.

"What . . ." mumbled Diggory as his Patronus mauled the mist, ripping it apart with his hands and biting at tendrils that tried to escape. Some of it almost managed to float away, but the glowing monkey leaped and bounced off the hallway walls and landed on top of it, devouring it in a matter of seconds. Then, instead of staying still, the monkey turned towards Voldemort and jumped at him.

Voldemort raised Harry's wand, ready to destroy the Patronus, but Diggory simply dismissed it.

"Three down," said Voldemort, still making Harry aware of his extreme displeasure at being unable to create a Patronus of his own.

_Get a less disgusting memory, then!_

"What's _happening?_ " cried Diggory as he pulled out his Com Coin, probably to tell Septimus to use a Patronus. "You have to learn to share info while you're having these episodes," he said while glancing at Voldemort impatiently. "What happened to my Patronus?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Voldemort admitted. Harry hoped Diggory didn't notice his obvious fascination. To any normal person, the episode would be extremely disturbing. Harry suspected his stomach would be clench with tension if he'd just seen a Patronus—the purest manifestation of light magic—savagely cannibalize some black mist and then try to attack a wizard.

"Riddle, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Voldemort answered. Harry was grateful that he didn't smirk. Better that his face remained expressionless.

Diggory still looked concerned but his coin glowed before he could ask any more question. "Weasley says he's got two of them at the Kneazle Center. We got all of them."

As soon as he heard that, Harry demanded control of his body back. Voldemort almost resisted, but he remembered that he had no interested in being at the Ministry if he wouldn't be allowed to cause some chaos. He quickly retreated to the back of Harry's mind to sulk about a wasted opportunity for real excitement. The abrupt change left Harry feeling slightly dizzy, so he leaned against the wall and looked at the floor.

"How did you know a Patronus would work?"

"I didn't," Harry answered.

He heard Diggory sigh tiredly. ". . . Go get some rest," he said finally. "You look dead on your feet."

Wordlessly, Harry Disapparated to his room, kicked off his boots, and climbed into bed for a nap before going to pick up Tom. He ought to check on the Polyjuice Potion he was brewing for their next attempt at getting the Amortentia supplier, but he was just so tired and Voldemort's foul mood only made him want to stay away from magic.

The process of turning a Dementor into mindless black mist ran through his mind as he buried his face against the pillow. Faceless wizards were summoning Patronuses and launching them at Dementors in enclosed spaces, watching them twitch and claw at stone walls. It sounded absurd, but the Ministry had found a way to torture Dementors.

_They did it during my rise to power in our original timeline_ , Voldemort said, always eager to remind Harry that this world was going to shit much faster than theirs had.

* * *

 

Despite the circumstances, Septimus had to suppress a smile at Diggory’s act for the Unspeakables.

“You found nothing,” said one of the robed figures.

“Just some Kneazles out of their minds,” said Diggory, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“And Riddle?”

“Off on Auror business,” said Diggory. “I can’t just keep my personnel here to help with barely-magical cats.”

“There were wraiths,” insisted one of the Unspeakables.

“I don’t what to tell you,” said Diggory, “except, no there weren’t.”

The Unspeakables vanished in unison without another word. “You’re welcomed,” Diggory shouted to the dragon on the roof. “Arseholes,” he added, turning towards Septimus.

“What happened to Harry?” The image of his Patronus, usually a gentle dove, going rabid at black smoke haunted him, never mind that the smoke itself had caused him no trouble.

“Let’s go,” said Diggory, gesturing at the lifts.

Septimus followed him, for once willing to leave the civilians to the new recruits. The chances that the Unspeakables had left behind any workable trace of their antics were slim to none, and he was too preoccupied with Harry and his maps to focus anyway.

“What happened to Harry?” he asked when they reached Diggory’s office.

“I sent him home,” said Diggory, all traces of the jaunty, jock-Auror gone from his demeanor. The ever present enemies lurking in his Foe-Glass remained indistinct.

“Why?”

“He’s fine,” said Diggory, kicking at his desk. The charms that anchored it to the floor held and Diggory let out a pained cussword.

“Albert.”

“He’s as good as Riddle ever is.” Diggory held his face in his hands, then leaned on the edge of his desk. “I didn’t want him starting a pissing contest with the Unspeakables now. He’s been looking unhinged lately.”

“Considering what Francis did, who’s surprised that Harry showed up at his house?”

“Every sanctimonious Pureblood prick in this country,” said Diggory.

Septimus ignore the urge to offer a rebuttal. “What about that map of his?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you really going to keep quiet?” For the first time in almost a decade, Septimus’ insides squirmed at keeping one of Harry’s secrets.

“You’d Ministry to know where every person in this damned building is at every second?”

“You’re fine with Harry having that information?”

“It’s not like he’s giving a choice,” said Diggory. “Besides, aren’t you always saying you trust Riddle with your life?”

“Sure, but I wouldn’t trust him with the life of every person who walks into this building,” said Septimus. “That’s not my call to make.”

“Whose call is it?” demanded Diggory. “Scrimgeour? The Minister? How long until Unspeakables analyze that map and plot the entire bloody continent, including your house? You fancy your boss knowing who you shag, when and where you shag them?”

Septimus groaned, walked forward to lean beside Diggory, deflated. “This is a mess. What were those things anyway.”

“I got Riddle out before asking him anything,” said Diggory. “Scrimgeour is posturing with the other Heads of Departments so I’ll not have to report until tomorrow.”

“Merlin help you,” said Septimus. The world churned with chaos every day. Merlin help them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger: in the middle of the chapter, Voldemort murders two Kneazles in a fairly graphic manner so, cruelty to animals.
> 
> Also, my still blogging [here](http://www.dynamicallyopposed.com/).
> 
> Next chapter: I make a seamless return to young Tom's plotline, which is obviously deftly integrated into whatever my overarching arc was when I wrote this story like six years ago. Obviously.


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